


The American Equivalent

by MissAdlock



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BBC, F/M, John Watson - Freeform, Other, Sherlock - Freeform, Sherlock Holmes - Freeform, holmes - Freeform, sherlock bbc - Freeform, watson - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-14
Updated: 2015-10-15
Packaged: 2018-04-26 07:51:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4996612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissAdlock/pseuds/MissAdlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Madeline Deare is an American psychologist and detective without a finished degree or schooling. She's what you may call a "natural" or "proper genius" in Sherlock Holmes's mind - if he ever payed you the compliment. As a young up-and-comer in the field, she's keen on solving a brilliant case for an American politician. </p>
<p>The vice's niece went missing in London a day before Madeline's arrival. </p>
<p>So with the help of both the American and British government, Madeline has requested the assistance of Sherlock Holmes - the clever detective in the funny hat. </p>
<p>But things go south after awhile. </p>
<p>Because Sherlock Holmes is starting to feel something.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The American

Greg Lestrade was a busy man.

    Busier than he had ever imagined. Murderers, thieves, and masterminds...they were all bugging up London somehow. Every day, every night...no matter the time. It was constant. One, blood speckled city with a criminal taste and its paperwork was compiling on his desk one particular Wednesday morning. 

    Eight o'clock A.M. The office is bustling. Donovan and Anderson are doing whatever it is they do at their desks, shuffling printer paper and highlighting something. Lestrade is in over his head. 

    The door to his office opens. A woman walks in.

    "God," he rubs his forehead. "Not this." 

    The woman takes off her black coat and drapes it over the chair in front of his desk. 

    "Oh yes," she replies in an American accent. She seats herself properly, crossing her nylon covered legs and smoothing out her black, tea-length dress. "Aren't you pleased to see me, Greg?" 

    He looks up from underneath the hand on his face, eyebrows lowered. "Why are you here?" 

    The brunette woman with a pale complexion and azure colored eyes grins wickedly. "I was summoned," she answers. 

    Lestrade rolls his eyes. "From who?" 

    She's quiet, just staring at him; a little, impious grin on her face. 

    "Stop," he says. 

    "What?" she asks innocently. 

    Lestrade doesn't answer her question. "Madeline..." he sighs. "Why did they send you?" 

    The room is hushed, paralyzed even. The noise of the office outside is muffled, but she can overhear a close conversation. _"I thought Tom was supposed to bring the sweets today." "Aye, same here. Doesn't he know he's slacking?" "I'll have a word with him."_ A trivial conversation, but distracting enough. She turns her attention back to Lestrade. 

    Madeline doesn't look at him, though. She looks about the room instead. "I'm here on official, political business..." she says quietly, preoccupied. Her eyes scan a photograph on the wall next to his university diploma. 

    "Oh, into politics now?" he teases. "I thought you were a one-woman show." 

    "I'm many things," she muses while standing. She heads towards the photograph. Shiny and glossy, the photo is, but in an old frame. Lestrades wife, Abigail, is picture next to a playground with his two children. They look at least two years old, the both of them. One boy, one girl. 

    "So, what do they have you doing now?" Lestrade asks, perching his legs onto his desk which is cluttered with documents and newspaper clippings. A piece falls onto the carpet. 

    Madeline seems preoccupied, her voice lowering. She's still glancing around the office. "Vice president's niece is missing. She was last seen in London..." she trails off. "I was going to ask if you've heard anything." 

    Lestrade's eyebrows raise. "I didn't know anything about it." 

    Madeline grins to herself. "Of course you wouldn't," she says. "It's confidential." 

    The chief inspector sighs loudly, too loudly. Dramatically. "Then why are you telling me?" 

    She shrugs. "Because I trust your opinion..." she says, finally making eye contact. "Because you break a lot of rules and so do I." 

    "And...?" he asks. 

    "And I need to ask...how do I get along with this infamous Sherlock Holmes?" 

   

<><><><>

  


Greg, remorsefully, gave Madeline the address. 

     221B Baker Street, London. She hated London. She hated the smell. She hated the noise. She hated the way the sewers looked on historical streets; streets where notorious and marvelous things have happened, yet there's cigarette butts everywhere you looked. 

     Washington was a lot like that, too. And she hated Washington as well. But at least it was home. 

     Baker Street was a crowded place with squat, brick buildings and iron fences. A cafe called "Speedys" was promoting itself quite vigilantly with a rather large, red awning just after the address. Madeline looks up towards the second story of the flat. An iron railing is guarding a murky window with a hooded figure swimming across the glass. But before she can get a second glance, the figure disappears and she assumes that the shadow belonged to either Doctor John Watson or Sherlock Holmes. 

    She knocks flippantly at the door. A few moments later, a grey haired woman in a purple blouse greets her with a rather large smile. 

    "Here to see Sherlock, dear?" she asks. 

    "Yes, ma'am. And you are?" she pulls out her hand to shake. 

    The old woman smiles. "Martha Hudson, Sherlock's landlady. Please, do come in!" 

    Madeline steps inside and is instantly greeted by the smell of a fruity pie. She glances at Missus Hudson; flour has caked her apron and her cheeks. For some absurd reason, when Madeline looks at her she feels warm. 

    "We don't get many Americans around here," Missus Hudson proclaims with a smile. "The last time we did...well," she stops. "Well, never mind that, dear. Sherlock is in." She says, motioning to the stairs. 

    "Thank you," Madeline tells her. 

    Upstairs, the floorboards are creaky and old. The flat must have been built in the late nineteenth century at the very least, judging by the way the door frames look. But most of it has been renovated, she notices, and when she arrives at a closed door at the end of the hall she's unsure whether she should knock or call for Missus Hudson to introduce her. 

    She decides to knock. Hesitantly. 

    Slowly, the door opens revealing a tall man in an eggshell colored dress shirt and red dressing robe. The curly haired gentleman inspects her thoroughly, taking his time. 

    "Miss Deare, I presume?" he asks, his baritone voice rumbling the whole flat. 

    Madeline smirks. "I'd ask how you knew that but..." 

    "You don't have to," he answers, holding the door open and exposing the room behind him. 

    She slowly walks in with her hands in her pockets, scrutinizing every inch of the room. The wallpaper, the strange bullet holes in the eyes of a spray painted face. The lab equipment scattered about the kitchen table. The disastrous boxes full of... 

    "Are those bones?" she asks, pointing to the cardboard boxes. 

    Mister Holmes grins to himself while seated on a leather armchair. "Yes," he mumbles. "For an experiment. Now, do you have anything to say or are you just going to stand there immobile?" 

    Madeline motions towards the chair opposite of him. "May I?" she asks. 

    Sherlock doesn't say anything. Just shifts his gaze. She takes it as a yes. 

    There's a long pause. Finally, Sherlock speaks. 

    "I've been expecting you," he says to her. His hands are steepled and brought up to his chin. He's staring at her intensely, focusing on the bottom of her coat. When she crosses her legs he breaks eye contact and lowers his brows. 

    "I expected so," she replies, sounding bored. "Mycroft, I'm guessing?" 

    "Who else?" he asks. "Though why he would think I cared about an American politician's niece, I'll never know." 

     Madeline shrugged. "You should, you know." She looks up at the ceiling. Definitely renovated. "Patriotism. Queen and country and all. Allied pride..." 

    "Not my concern," he answers simply. 

     "Of course not," she fires back. "You're the detective who knows everything about anything. Besides the solar system, apparently..." she mumbles, and when he shoots her a glare she smiles sweetly. "Why should you care about something so trivial as the disappearance of a politician's family member, hm?" 

    Mister Holmes furrows his eyebrows. "But now you're out of your depth and you need my help..." he almost sings, a deviant grin forming on his wide mouth. 

    Madeline tsk's. "Two great minds are better than one. Especially on a case this puzzling." 

    "Two great minds?" he almost laughs. 

    The woman stares at him. "Do you think I'm joking?" 

    Sherlock smiles derisively, beaming with cleverness. "I think you're a twenty-something year old detective who has problems with her line of work." He replies. "But that's just elementary." 

    Madeline leans in to break the two feet between them. Her blue eyes level with his own. "Alright, Mister Holmes. Let's play deductions, shall we?" she grins and stands, pacing around the room. She waves a hand at him. "Alright, you go first. I'll wait." 

    Sherlock Holmes is puzzled. Absolutely taken off guard. But he's a man of arrogance and pride, so therefore he obliges to her request. He only takes one more quick glance about her form before beginning. 

    "You're presumably in your early twenties which makes me believe that your relationships with your coworkers aren't that great because you're much, much younger than them. They hold some sort of grudge against you because of it - after all, they've spent years working up to the point in which you already are. So, work life? Not so great. Your bosses may not take you all that seriously either, even if you do have a pinprick of talent, because of your age and sex. On the bottom of your coat is a newly lose thread. Newly, you say? Yes, because the split ends of the string hasn't frayed all that much. So maybe you've just been in a hurry to get somewhere and snagged it on something. Probably something in the tube you took." 

    "Your hair is healthy, but un-kept, judging by the darker roots on top of your head. This makes me believe that you aren't interested in outward appearances as much as you let people believe, what, with the perfectly applied lipstick, and perfectly hemmed dress. Tailored exactly to your height and weight." He says. "Oh, and I forgot to mention that you suffer from an untreated, under active thyroid condition. The goiter on your throat clearly explains that, so I would probably get that checked if I were you." 

    Madeline is silent, tapping the chair sitting in front of the lanky detective. Her eyes are wild with excitement as though she's just seen the sun for the first time. She knew he was good but in person it had to have been different; she'd always expected that anyway. 

    She's never seen someone else do it before. 

    "Your turn," he says dully, side eyeing her. 

    Madeline clears her throat and walks about the room with her hands folded behind her back. "Animal lover." 

    The room is still. Sherlock blinks a couple of times. "Excuse me?" he asks. 

    "You're an animal lover, especially dogs." 

    Still silence. 

    "Researchers show that dog lovers are more dominant than cat lovers," she says. "They have much more self-assurance and crave their own authority. Though cat lovers tend to be more intelligent and enjoy loneliness, dog lovers seek companionship...not affection." Madeline points to the empty chair she just sat in a minute ago. 

    Sherlock doesn't say anything. He just waits. 

    "It doesn't take a rocket scientist to know that you had a difficult childhood," she continues on. "And from the research I've done on you..." 

    She's interrupted by a quiet murmur. "Cheating..." he says, looking at his hands.  


    But she continues. "-you're obviously not neurotypical..." 

    Sherlock grins. 

    "I'd diagnose you as sociopathic, but.." 

    "But...?" 

    "You died for your friends. People who are nothing like you. You share no similarities as far as intellect goes. You feel things for them purely based on affection. And you're not a psychopath because..." Madeline chuckles lowly. "Well, you're not that deep." 

    "Are you profiling me?" Sherlock asks, amused. 

    "A bit. Should I go on?" she asks, heading towards the mantle. 

    Sherlock steeples his hands again. "I'm curious." 

    She grins at him and taps the skull next to a stabbed Cluedo board on the wall. She ignores it. "So my diagnoses is Aspergers," she says confidently. "But of course that's obvious, as you're attuned to collecting information without having any interest in it whatsoever and lacking empathy for anyone who you have not formed a bond with. You must have some sort of selected muteness...." 

    Mister Holmes sighs loudly. "Moving on." 

    Madeline looks behind her at the detective and smirks. "How am I doing so far?" 

    Sherlock grimaces. 

    "I'll take that answer." She says. 

    She saunters back to the leather seat, plopping down with a quiet thud. She stares at the man in the dressing robe intensely, waiting for a reaction. 

    Sherlock narrows his eyes. "You're a psychologist." 

    She nods her head softly. "Yes..." she says and it sounds like a question.

    "But not just any psychologist," he muses. He lifts his chin. "Your age doesn't qualify for seniority and especially considering a case this big..." but it hits him then, a light bulb almost vivid above his curly head. "Ah." 

    Madeline grins in the background. 

    "A proper genius..." he replies sarcastically. 

    "You're not the only one in the world, Mister Holmes. The English government has you, and..." 

    "The American government has you, I deduce?" 

    Madeline makes no comment and instead plays with the frayed string on her coat. "I can tell someone's Myers Briggs just by spending a few moments with them, their mental disorders and illnesses...even some of their medical history but only the ones that are obvious..." 

    Sherlock interrupts. "What's mine, then?" he asks, rather monotonous. 

    Madeline slowly looks up from her thread. "Sorry?" 

    "My MBTI, what is it?" he asks. 

    The woman in all black and a crimson smile rolls her eyes. "You already know." 

    "Well of course I know," Sherlock replies quickly. "I want to see if you do." 

    She doesn't have to think. "ISTJ," she replies automatically. "A Logistician." 

    The detective mumbles, "Obviously...." before raising from his seat. He walks towards the window overlooking Baker Street, mutely. 

    Madeline notices the patches upon his forearm. Three. 

    "A quitter, are you?" she asks him. He doesn't answer. "Well, obviously. You're wearing three patches. That's a bit dangerous, isn't it?" she asks him. 

    "Hmm?" he wonders, staring out the window. 

    Madeline sighs before heading to the kitchen. Underneath a swinging, florescent light she gazes upon the mess of lab equipment. Strewn everywhere are glass test tubes and prongs. She notices a Petri dish filled with a slimy, gooey, pink liquid. She doesn't ask. 

    Opening the fridge she says, "I'll have to go shopping." 

    Sherlock makes a noise under his breath. 

    "Do you want anything?" she asks kindly. Despite the irritation she feels towards him, she must cooperate. She must. Even if it killed her, and it might do just that. 

    The detective replies, "Not now. I'm thinking." 

    Madeline rolls her eyes to herself, back turned, and towards the empty fridge; there's absolutely nothing besides a bag full of thumbs and a bottle of wine. She inspects it. Vintage; blance, from 2003. She exhales deeply and closes the fridge. 

    Then a noise causes her to glance at the doorway, as does Sherlock; footsteps on the creaky floorboards. Standing in the frame is a rather tall gentleman with an umbrella in his right hand, despite the clear weather. His grey suit looks expensive, at least seven-hundred pounds. His eyes are familiar. 

    That's when Madeline grins and walks towards him. 

    "Mycroft Holmes?" she asks. 

    The man nods softly. "Yes. Pleased to meet you Miss Deare..." he says, tediously. He makes his way towards the empty armchair and balances his hands on the umbrella. 

    Sherlock exhales. "Why did you invite a complete stranger to stay in my flat? You know I have no time..." 

    Mycroft interrupts him with a hand. "You _will_ work with her, Sherlock." 

    The younger Holmes boy makes a grunting noise in the back of his throat. "Do I have a choice?" 

    "Think of it this way..." Mycroft murmurs, eyes locked on his little brother. "The sooner you help solve the case, the sooner she leaves." 

    Madeline counts, that after exactly a minute, Sherlock springs out of his seat and towards the door. "Then let's go..." he says stubbornly. 

    The older Holmes raises an eyebrow. "Where are you going?" 

    Sherlock turns around while shrugging on his coat; a long, black number with lifted collar. "To the last place she was seen, obviously." 

    Madeline interrupts with the shake of her head. "Oh, no. I don't do that." 

    Sherlock raises an eyebrow while tying his scarf. "What?" 

    "Do field work the first day in the country," she says. "Bad luck." Both of the Holmes boys rolls their eyes and Sherlock begins to slowly take off his scarf, to his demise. "Oh, but you don't have to do that," she says. "Because we _are_ going out." 


	2. The Dog

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Madeline and Sherlock are having dinner. Chinese food. Zodiacs. They need to get to know one another in order to work with each other, right? ♡

_"I don't understand why this is necessary."_

     Sherlock is mumbling under his breath like a child, hiding his face in the collar of his coat and walking against the blistering, London wind. Madeline is perfectly content in her coat, however, snuggled as a bug and waiting for a restaurant to catch her eye. The two of them match with one another; both clad in long, black coats and pale complexion. Passerby's acknowledge them on the sidewalk by maneuvering around them like a plague.

     "Oh, it's just dinner..." Madeline pauses, suddenly not sure what to call him. "Can I call you Sherlock?"

     Sherlock takes a deep breath, his eyes glued forward. "That is my name, isn't it?" 

     Madeline shrugs, kicking a rock with her boot. "I don't know. Some people like to be called Mister or Missus or Miss..."

     The lanky detective next to her says, "I'm not just anybody."

     Madeline grins to herself. "No," she murmurs. "You're definitely not."

     The two of them are silent with a strange amount of awkward tension between them. You could cut the air with a knife and a thick, dazing feeling suddenly bestows upon Madeline. She feels lightheaded. Here she is, with the world's most famous detective, and she's completely at a loss for words. Madeline has never in her life felt so tall yet, oh so small standing next to another. She would like to as him questions upon questions but she comes up wordless every time she tries. They've been strolling around London for about fifteen minutes, on foot nonetheless, and nothing is coming to her.

     Sherlock glances at her in the corner of his eye but doesn't say anything. Madeline wonders if it's his way of trying to start another conversation. She can't think of anything to help move it along. It's frustrating.

     "You're American," he says suddenly.

     Madeline almost sighs in relief. "Yes," she replies. "A good deduction."

     Sherlock clears his throat, staring forward again. He hasn't looked at her much.

     "So John..." Madeline begins. Sherlock makes a noise in his throat like he's aware of her speaking. "He's married now, right?"

     "He is," Sherlock replies. They pass a parchment shop.

     Madeline nods and watches the clouds in the sky. It looks like it'll rain. October is an awfully wet month in London; it's one of the only things she loves about the city, all this rain.

     "Here," Sherlock says. He points towards a blue awning, not as big as Speedys's, but big enough to grab the attention of wanderers and tourists.

     "What kind of restaurant is it?" she asks, squinting her eyes. They draw closer and she sees it. "Ah, Chinese."

     Sherlock grins to himself. "They have wonderful dim sum. The best in London, though I wouldn't trust anyone else..." he starts stepping towards the building when it begins to sprinkle.

     The two head inside.

 

 

<><><><>

 

 

Madeline orders Crab Rangoon and hot and sour soup. Sherlock orders nothing. 

     "I thought you liked the dim sum," Madeline says to him. There's a candle between them, though Sherlock had made it very clear to the waitress it wasn't necessary. Too intimate for him, Madeline guessed. Knew, rather. "Why didn't you get any?"

     "I don't eat in front of other people," he replies simply, staring out the window and into the streets of London.

     Madeline picks at her paper menu and starts tearing it into pieces. "Ah, I see..." she nods her head. "That makes sense, I guess."

     Sherlock slowly turns his head towards Madeline. "What? Does that go into my profile as well?"

     She shakes her head and purses her lips. "No, it just explains a few things." Naturally, he waits for a reply. But he doesn't receive one. "Now is not the time. I'll have to study you a bit more..." she smiles softly, bowing her head to stare at the zodiac list on the menu.

     In the corner of her eye she sees him crinkle his eyebrows together. "Am I really that interesting?" he asks nonchalantly. But she can see it...a speckle of hope that says, _finally someone finds his mind deeply intriguing. He's not just clever, he's..._

     Well, she can't really decide. Maybe a rather large, angsty middle aged man.

     Madeline runs her finger down the list and finds hers. "Ah, the dog."

     Sherlock raises a brow and follows her gaze. Then he looks down at his own. "Don't tell me you believe that stuff..." he chuckles a bit.

     "The cosmos are a very mysterious concept, Sherlock Holmes."

     "Concept? It's not a concept." He replies, glazing his eyes across the list as if he's looking for his. "You're using the wrong word. You're slacking."

     "Have you ever seen space? The blackness of it?" she begins. "The depth and magnitude and the everlasting inflammation of it?"

     "Not in person, no." He replies.

     "Then, yes, it's a concept isn't it?" she pauses. "Stars can tell you many things. They help you find your way out of the woods and..." she takes a sip of her ice water. "-back into them, if you prefer."

     The detective grimaces a bit but then his brows soften and so do his eyes. He pushes the piece of paper out of his line of vision. Madeline notices his huff and puff, focusing on the way his mouth quivers in irritation.

     "What is it?" she asks him, a little amused by his reaction.

     Sherlock is silent for a second and stares above her head at whatever it is behind her. "1982," he says. "The dog."

     Madeline watches him for a second, a little surprised, but then slowly begins to laugh under her breath. Sherlock glares at her, his body tensing up a bit. But when she begins to snort a little he cracks a grin and rolls his eyes a bit while trying to ignore the giddiness in front of him, purely in human form.

     After she's done chuckling she slowly exhales. "Do you see what I mean, Sherlock?" 

     The waitress finally arrives with Madeline's food after a few moments. A steaming bowl of soup and a plate of Crab Rangoon sizzles in front of her. Her stomach growls loudly and she blushes a bit, embarrassed by the sound. Sherlock seems to notice, tearing his gaze away from her eyes as though he suddenly feels _self-conscious_ by deducing her. 

     Madeline plops a Crab Rangoon in her mouth, but upon impact, she squeals and blows out a fog of steam. "God, ouch!" she cries, dropping the fried dumpling onto the plate.

     Sherlock looks a bit concerned, an expression she hasn't seen until now. "Are you alright?"

     She's shocked. A very human reaction. Empathetic, even. 

     Madeline sort of sits there in awe, though tries not to make a fuss about it. "Yeah," she says slowly. "Alright. Just a bit hot." 

     Sherlock nods and looks away out the window again. It's beginning to rain very heavily. People outside are starting to run for cover; you immediately know which are the tourists because they duck underneath awnings and newspapers, whereas the homelanders simply glance up at the clouds and continue on.

     She watches him watch them. But only until her dumpling is cool enough to eat.

     "I was born in London," she says suddenly.

     Sherlock turns his attention to her with a soft, "Hmm?"

     Madeline nods. "My parents lived here for three years before I was born. We stayed until I was five."

     Sherlock furrows his eyebrows. "And you work for the American government?"

     She smiles a little and bites her Rangoon. "I'm an American," she says to him. "I love my country and I'm good at what I do."

     He seems to be chewing on the inside of his cheek. Mulling it over, maybe. He probably knew that anyway. "I see," he says.

     "I'm surprised you didn't say anything about it," she tells him. "I'm assuming you knew."

     Sherlock seems caught off guard, his eyes glancing about the room. "Obviously," he says, but it doesn't sound certain.

     Madeline grins down at her soup. "Obviously," she echos.

    

 

 


End file.
